Pretext
by leftminds
Summary: The vid was on but muted, showing some over-played nature documentary. Garishly bright birds flitted from branch to branch as Trowa poured the alcohol. ((3x5x3, semi-sequel to SUBTXT))


Title: Pretext

Pairing: 3x5x3

Warnings/Rating: Implied male/male sex, slight angst, language

Notes: For a friend who requested Trowa, Wufei, & "potted plant".

Kinda-sorta sequel to SUBTXT; or at least, same universe.

"I just don't get how he isn't in jail."

Duo had a big mouth. That was the thought that stuck in Trowa's mind. A big mouth, and no compunction in using it. Trowa was occasionally surprised that someone so obviously intelligent could think so little before he spoke.

Duo had been trying to explain his dislike for Zechs Marquise (visiting for the week from another Preventers branch) to Heero, who had no such grudge against the man. And being Duo, he was doing it loudly, in the middle of the office. More amusing than anything, really, except for that last comment. Except for the fact that Wufei's office was open, and not three meters from the discussion. Except for the unspoken answer to Duo's implied question:  
'For the same reason Wufei isn't in jail.'

Heero knew it, too. He jerked Duo's arm and near-shoved him toward the stairwell. Trowa, who had been listening nearby, chanced a glance at Wufei through the open door. Oil-black eyes in a carefully blank face, fixed to the thick, shiny leaves of a plant sitting at the head of the desk. Aglaonema, Trowa classified. A Chinese evergreen.

A moment passed, and Trowa watched as Wufei visibly gathered himself; the set of his jaw, a soft line between his brows. Eyes shifted from the plant and Trowa stepped into the office, holding the doorknob until the latch clicked behind him.

"It's poisonous," he said.

Wufei shook his head, a fraction of an inch to each side. "What?"

"The sap of this plant. It's poisonous." Trowa rubbed a leaf between thumb and index finger, gently. He was no botanist, but knew plants like these well. The mercenary group he had grown up with had been fond of using natural poisons in ground water. Calcium oxalate. As a tactic, it worked well to kill off entire villages. As a memory-- jaundiced, bloated faces, convulsing bodies, bleeding from every orifice, god there was blood everywhere-- it was brutal. The children (who in another life might have been his playmates) always died first.

"Oh."

"Come over after work. I've got a bottle of tequila with your name on it."

Wufei had been to Trowa's apartment only once, to offer him a job with Preventers. It had been 3 years since. He seemed about to refuse, but instead let escape a quiet sigh of a word, "Alright."

Trowa debated whether or not to give voice to a thought, and hesitated at the door before half turning back.

"You're not the sum of your mistakes," he said.

If Wufei had a reply, Trowa was out the door before it could be voiced.

He showed up at eight, holding out a bottle of wine. Trowa took it from him, sparing it a look as he stepped aside. Cabernet sauvignon, and likely not cheap, either. He didn't know quite what to do with it, so he took it into the kitchen, setting it gingerly on the countertop before grabbing the tequila and two shot glasses from the cupboard. When he returned to the front room, he found Wufei still standing near the door and fidgeting with the hem of his Preventers jacket. He'd not changed from work, and stood stiffly; all pressed slacks, black tie and grey dress shirt underneath the coat. Trowa looked quite a bit less formal in faded jeans and white wife-beater.

"Thanks for the wine," he said. "Tequila tonight, though."

"It's-- I'm a guest. I couldn't come empty-handed." Wufei was obviously uncomfortable. Trowa left the bottle and glasses on the darkly lacquered coffee table and strode over to the other man, a hand extended. "Give me your jacket. Go sit down. Relax."

Wufei shrugged off the coat and went to the sofa while Trowa hung the heavy cloth on an exposed screw in the wall. He then joined Wufei, leaving a good two feet of space between them on the couch-- an ugly, striped-beige number that had come with the apartment. The vid was on but muted, showing some over-played nature documentary. Garishly bright birds flitted from branch to branch as Trowa poured the alcohol.

"Tequila isn't really my drink," Wufei said, staring at the amber liquid with subdued nervousness. Trowa only shrugged, and slid the glass across the table.

"Tequila isn't anyone's drink. Cheers," and downed the shot. A few moments later, Wufei followed suit.

Trowa hadn't thought much of the Shenlong pilot at first meeting. Prickly at best, Wufei had held himself with the bearing of a boy used to power, but had spoken with the conviction of a man accustomed to hate. Neither were positions with which Trowa could easily relate, and he detested the arrogance that reminded him so much of the original Trowa Barton. But sitting with one another around a campfire, cradling steaming mugs of coffee against the chill of night, Trowa had found in Wufei quiet company and a passion he could admire, doubled by a determination even Heero lacked. A deep-seated self-loathing, too, that Trowa felt echoed in himself.

They sat and drank.

Somewhere between the first shot and the empty bottle, the couch became the bed and fully clothed became nude and neither of them had the faintest idea of the how of it. It was something of a disaster; Wufei had gotten sick in the middle and had to slide out of Trowa to run to the bathroom, which didn't make much of a difference as Trowa was too drunk to come anyway. Still-- it was hot. Unbelievably hot. Wufei had a body that wouldn't quit, tanned golden skin like caramel, slick and shiny with sweat-- Trowa could not stop touching, just could not stop-- hair fallen out of the tight ponytail and stuck to his face, and all the hesitation of earlier liquored out of him.

Trowa had been surprised, to say the least, and not a little bit delighted. He had always thought Wufei was straight. Apparently, Wufei had thought so too; Trowa woke the next day for work, 3 hours after passing out, hungover and pointedly alone. They never spoke of that night again.

When Wufei showed up at his door three weeks later, they didn't speak of it then, either.

By the sixth time it happened, Wufei no longer bothered bringing a bottle of wine with him. They didn't sit on the couch until the sexual tension was more than Trowa could bear. There were no greetings. No words at all. Afterward, lying lazy and dozing on the bed Trowa bought because the old one squeaked (which made Wufei uncomfortable), he felt the dip and pull that meant Wufei was about to leave. Without knowing why, Trowa grabbed for the other man's arm and brought him up short, and Wufei turned to look at him, really look at him for perhaps the first time that evening.

"Just go to sleep," Trowa said, muzzily.

Wufei tugged, and started to slip off the bed. "I can't. You know I can't."

"It's Saturday."

"I shouldn't."

But Trowa just pulled Wufei back down, too tired and sated to bother with the choreographed dance that had somehow become their fuck-buddy lingo. "Damnit, Chang, I'm not asking for your hand in marriage. Just stay."

Two beats later, Wufei lay flat, unsure like he had never been and moving stiltedly. Trowa released the arm and rolled onto his side, his back to Wufei, who was gathering and worrying at the comforter enough that Trowa could feel it. Eventually he felt the nervous movements still, and heard as Wufei's breathing slowed and softened. Only then did Trowa let the radiating warmth at his back lull him to sleep.

There were no nightmares.


End file.
